


Meat For Martyrs

by labicheramure



Category: Batman (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Canon-Typical Violence, Florida, Imprisonment, Injury Recovery, Intersex Omegas, Kidnapping, M/M, Omega Dick Grayson, Sexism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-06-26 17:51:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19773367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labicheramure/pseuds/labicheramure
Summary: Dick Grayson has a secret. Slade Wilson Has a contract.Both of them have a choice to make.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Pre-Flashpoint, roughly after Gotham Knights #24. More AU for Nightwing, Dick never became a cop because ACAB.

Blüdhaven was hot this time of year, worse than Gotham, boiling with the stink of garbage and seawater. People wanted beer to wet their throats, cold and easy. The bar was busy and Dick was running on autopilot, keeping the taps flowing as he fills iced glasses, over and over again. He liked nights like this, even if there was ultimately not much to do, or even much to listen for. Heat brought a rise in crimes of violence and passion, simple tragedies that cops tend to keep to themselves. The best he heard is that a kid who robbed a bodega might be gang affiliated. Or the cop who arrested him might be racist. 

It’s a rare Sunday night with no game on, so the TV was turned to a late rerun of the evening news. Dick only half-listened, his mind on the hours of darkness he’d have as Nightwing after his shift ends, if he should shorten patrol to keep away from sunrise. It hit him too late. 

“...has announced that the estrus-suppressing birth control Zedinin will be pulled off of shelves immediately, citing concerns with fertility. Omega advocates claim —”

Dick stopped listening. He knew what omega advocates claim; that there’s no evidence Zed makes it any harder to conceive after you stop using it, that the FDA’s decision is political, designed to make normal life inaccessible to people like him. How many conservatives have said that using birth control is self-selected extinction, for such a rare group of people? Omegas should be trying to have as many children as possible, right?

He flipped the next tap a little harder than he needed, the sudden spray waking him from his anger. Sickness replaced it, settling deep in his gut, in the small place where he knew his womb must be. He felt it through the handful of heats he endured as a teenager, pulsing first with desire, and then pain, when that want was left unfulfilled. Until Zed was approved by the FDA, he spent his springs and summers pretending to be sick, claiming severe asthma that left him absent from school for days. Worse though, was missing the nights, as Robin. In spite of Alfred’s protests, he waited up for Bruce every night he missed, checked over his injuries and watched him update files, until his frustrated mentor sent him to bed. 

Robin needed to always be prepared. Nightwing was supposed to be an adult, but Dick was blindsided. Reading the news about the upcoming vote isn’t the same as knowing he’ll be going into heat in the next month. Corporal Reichert orders two shots. Dick thought about taking one of his own as he made it. 

“Thanks, kiddo,” the cop said, immediately downing one. Reichert was way too young to be calling Dick a kid, but like every other cop in this town, he was never satisfied unless he’s reminding someone lesser of their place. “Man, I just don’t get this omega shit. Who’s knocking these freaks up in the first place?”

“It’s all their johns,” said Officer Duane. “I’ve caught a couple of them on Coach Street before, they’re all hooking. They’re sex maniacs, they need it so bad they’ll grab it from whatever tweaker comes walkin’ by with a 20.”

Dick allowed himself the brief fantasy of both men choking on their own drinks. He heard it all before. Omegas are sex crazed, they’re animals, the only work they’re good for is getting fucked. Hell, it’s even in the Bible. Omegas can’t be married, their only use is as slaves. If your child is born an omega, you’re supposed to kill it, to spare it the pain of an omega’s life. Only later did Jesus say that a man could live as an omega, could even get into heaven, if he stayed chaste, and devoted to God.

Dick was named for Saint Richard, the patron of omegas, of those who must turn away from their own sinful nature. His parents were not particularly pious, but Papa was a man who knew you must pray to the saints for luck before a show. The pimply-faced seasonal workers might have teased him for his superstition, but Dick only saw his father fall once, that final time. Even now, with years between him and a church, he thought of Saint Sarah, before he made a jump. 

“Grayson.”

Only years of training prevented Dick from jumping when Hogan clapped him on the shoulder. His gruff face was uncharacteristically soft, and Dick felt bad at once for worrying him. 

“Sorry, boss,” he said. “Construction down the street’s cutting into my beauty sleep. I’ll  
get back on the front right away.”

Hogan frowned. 

“Kid, this place is deader than St. Aggie’s on a Friday. Go get some sleep. I’ll keep an eye on these bozos.”

“Sir, you don’t have to -”

Hogan clapped his back, not-so-subtly herding Dick toward the back door. It was a little like being gently punched by a heavyweight boxer. He would know. 

“Goodnight, Grayson!”

The sun had only just set by the time Dick made it home. Too early for Nightwing, or at least too early for the scumbags he wanted to root out tonight. The pimps on Coach wouldn’t be on the streets until at least ten, counting the night’s first rounds of profit. It wouldn’t be bad if some of those counting fingers ended up broken, Dick thought. Maybe along with a few teeth. 

It wasn’t until he was in the shower, fingers trembling against the pink tile, that Dick realized how off-kilter he was. He wasn’t lying to Hogan; he was missing on sleep, but that wasn’t why he’d gone completely inside his head at work. It was that word, that one thing that could change his life into something he didn’t recognize. 

_Heat._

It was like being an animal. For almost two days he would lay in his room, jerking off to thoughts so filthy he was sure they belonged to someone else. Dick dreamed of being eaten out by strangers, of being fucked on display, of crawling into Batman’s lap and riding him until they both went crazy. As an adult, he’d read enough to know that fantasy was like that; it could be wild and transgressive and it didn’t have to mean anything. At 16, fucking himself with the rounded end of a hairbrush, he was so ashamed he thought he would die. 

Bruce was kind enough to get him what he needed, to understand what heat cost Dick, without him having to spell it out. He would get it again, if he asked. He would break any law, would have a year’s supply of Zedinine flown in overnight, if Dick called him right now. He toweled off his hair. Last time he saw him, Bruce said it was getting long. He said it evenly, off-hand, like he was commenting on the weather. Dick wasn’t stupid. 

If you want to keep your secret, you need to look like a man. 

Dick was a man. His hips were wide (well-balanced by muscle) and his feet were small. Babs once told him that his mouth was feminine. Even without his heats, he kept tampons under the bathroom sink. His body was proudly honed, a weapon built from his parents’ blood by Batman himself. They taught him to live inside it, to know every inch of skin and bone.

He opened the cabinet. The small round blister of Zed was bent outward a little. There were four pills left. Dick flung the thing into the tub. 

_No Refills — Dr. Must Authorize._

Sometimes the shame the world tried to push into him made Dick hate more than he could bear. He felt like a liar being himself, for all the absurdity of it. Was he supposed to tell every stranger exactly what equipment he was working with? Should he wear a sign? 

In 2015, 18% of Americans said omegas shouldn’t exist. 22% said they should be sterilized, or surgically altered at birth. So many people wanted him to be anything other than who and what he was. He wondered, sometimes, if he became Robin just to fight them.

Dick pulled a pair off boxer-briefs out of the dryer. He’d modified them himself, making a pocket to slip in an athletic cup. The sun had set now. It was Nightwing’s time. 

_Click. Snap._

The apartment went dark, the only light coming from distant streetlights in the north window. A window whose blinds he’d left closed. Dick only had a single breath to jump out of the way of the heavy fist swinging in his direction. He landed rough against his own bedroom doorway. When he next opened his eyes, the low light revealed his attacker.

“Don’t make this hard on yourself, kid,” said Deathstroke. 

His frame filled Dick’s tiny apartment, heavy with violence. His eye reflected the streetlights below. It was the only warning Dick got before he moved. He surged at him, each blow only a breath away from hitting its mark. In any other place, Dick could outpace him, using his size to at least put some distance between them. In this small space, it felt like a matter of time, and Dick could only think that he was lucky Deathstroke didn’t have a gun. 

“I don’t remember giving you a key to my apartment, Mr. Wilson.” Dick hopped onto his bed, aiming a knee at Slade’s fat orange head. He missed, of course. “In fact, I don’t believe I ever told you where I live!”

Deathstroke easily grabbed his ankle and yanked Dick’s feet out from under him. His back hit the bed so hard that it knocked the breath out of him. In the moment it took him to get it back, Slade was on him, trapping Dick’s legs under his heavy thighs. Even using the headboard, he couldn’t get the leverage to throw Slade off. The mercenary was silent above him. He intercepted Dick’s next punch, squeezing his fingers until his bones ground together. He took his left and simply pressed it down, holding firm. 

Dick could feel his chest heaving against Slade’s stomach. He leaned over him, deadly and contemplative. It was hard to breathe, but Dick imagined that that was the idea. 

“Slade,” he breathed, his voice a whisper from far away. 

Slade covered Dick’s eyes. He heard the terrible familiar noise of a knife being drawn. He reached for it, but it was too late. A hot line of pain bloomed across his throat. He screamed. It choked him, but he screamed again. Heat spread and pooled beneath his neck. 

Dick felt Slade’s weight leave him. White light flashed, leaving him blinking and blinded. He spent a long, awful moment trying to make himself move, failing. He breathed through his nose, tasting blood. Trying to cough felt like opening himself up. 

"Easy, boy."

He opened his eyes. Slade lifted his head gently, wrapping it tight in a thick towel. His large hands pressed heavy against the wet place where his wound lay, leaving Dick only just enough room to breathe. It took several seconds for his eyes to register that the pale face above him was Slade's. 

"Shh, shh." Slade pet Dick's cheek, his fingers bare and warm. Dick felt colder by the second. A very distant part of him realized he was going into shock. Above him, Deathstroke the Terminator looked as though he might cry. "It's okay, you're gonna be okay, kid."

Dick couldn't see anymore. He didn't know if his eyes were open. All he knew were the warm points of Slade's fingers, the gentle timbre of his voice. Before consciousness left him, Dick was sure he felt him kiss his cheek. 

It was wet.


	2. Chapter 2

The boy didn’t deserve to die this way. 

He wouldn’t, Slade told himself, watching Dick Grayson lapse into unconsciousness, his breath coming easier now that he wasn’t awake to think about it. Slade was careful. Even with the boy’s struggling, he cut only enough to create a stain on the mattress. He would flip it later, another assailant’s poor attempt to hide his deed. Right now, there were more important things to attend to. 

“Doctor, he’s ready.”

Dr. James Havisham was an old friend of Billy’s, one of those strange schoolyard companions who clung to one another in the gloom of postwar England. Like most such men he met, he seemed to despise Slade on principle. He’d taken this job unhappily, though not unhappily enough to refuse the first half of his payment. Though Billy pushed him to show empathy, Slade couldn’t help but hate men like Havisham. It was easy to look down on the work of killers when privilege had given you a college degree. Just as easy, it seemed, to take a killer’s money when divorce left you just a little less comfortable than you would like.

He arrived behind Wintergreen, exuding a nervous energy that would have annoyed Slade, had he not just cut open a young man’s throat. As it was, all Slade could do was pull away with sickness in his gut as Havisham took a flashlight to examine the unconscious boy. Grayson’s chest rose and fell evenly; but for the blood against his pallor, he could have been napping. 

“His heart rate is steady,” said Havisham, surprised. He pressed two fingers into the boy’s wrist, counting under his breath for several seconds. “Blood pressure.. It’s low, but not dangerous. How long has he been out?”

“Since I called you,” Slade said, pulling his gloves back on. “Passed out from pain, most likely. I know how to keep blood loss to a minimum, if I need to. Check his neck. Nothing cut but skin and muscle, right?”

“It’s hard to tell in the dark,” the doctor said sourly. “But. Yes. It looks like you avoided the carotid arteries. Somehow. But don’t throw yourself a party yet, Wilson. There are a lot of complications that can arise from this kind of injury.”

“He’s strong,” Slade said. “He’ll survive.”

“Strong or not,” said the doctor. “If you’re not a religious fellow, now would be a fine time to discover prayer.”

Slade restored the apartment’s power while Havisham and Wintergreen prepared Dick Grayson for surgery. He’d come home from work much earlier than expected, and now Slade had three more hours to transform his home into the scene of a brutal crime of passion. The apartment’s lights flickered on, dim in spite of the building’s recent remodels. Or maybe the boy was just bad at remembering to change light bulbs. The rest of it seemed to reflect this; everything was just ordered enough to not be filthy. In the kitchen, there were dishes and utensils out, but no food. The furniture was new, but not ostentatious, nothing implied in its design but utility and comfort. There was a large yoga mat rolled up neatly behind the television. It was probably the most well cared-for thing in the apartment. 

It did not take long to adjust the apartment’s main living areas to fit the narrative of a well-pampered youth in his twenties, slumming it. Grayson’s fixation on fitness was normal for young men these days, and his small collection of forensics textbooks were easily removed. His laptop, Slade carefully destroyed; though he would have liked having access to Nightwing’s files, the risk of a tracking device was too much to bring it with him. A factory disabled tablet would be left in its place. 

Nice and simple, except for all the ways in which it was not.

—

Slade knew a government spook when he saw one. Like cops, they had an air of over-serious importance hanging over them that no conscious effort could disguise. They tended to approach Slade in groups; also like cops, they were chinless, and easily intimidated. The well-dressed blond who met him at the Laissez-Faire in DC was unique in his lack of backup, but absolutely nothing else.

“You can consider me a point man, of sorts,” he said. His name was either Leland or Lemont. He told Slade to call him Jimmy. All his friends did. He was posing as the right hand of a ‘private businessman’, probably meant to be Roland Dagget. Another easy way to identify a company man; they still operated like it was 2003, which was the last time Roland Dagget was a relevant player. 

It was a hot day, almost July, and almost certainly too hot for Call Me Jimmy’s expensed Armani jacket. Slade had chosen a Cajun restaurant partly to punish him for insisting they meet in person, a kind of animal satisfaction in him, watching the man’s pink face sweat like an overfed hog. It was absurd to meet a contract killer in public, but he offered Slade 200k just to take the meeting, and he was only human. He definitely wanted to see who needed to die so bad that he’d invite Deathstroke to a business lunch.  
  
Jimmy wanted Bruce Wayne utterly destroyed. Plenty of men did, after he bought up about half of Gotham City in the year following the quake. Only the federal government would believe they could. Slade wondered if Jimmy knew that, or if he’d been in over his head from the start. He wanted Dick Grayson dead, and Bruce Wayne framed for the murder. He seemed to think it would be easy, if you painted one or the other as a jilted lover, and Wayne as a man who murdered his secret catamite in a fit of passion. He’d leave the details to Slade, he was a professional. Meaning, no matter how little evidence was left, the feds would use all their resources to turn this into a sex scandal with a murder conviction. 

He left Jimmy with a maybe, and the check. There was only one man in the government with the grudge and power to so brazenly hire Deathstroke to kill a rich man’s son. Luthor had contracted him before, and Slade would have liked to think that they had a decent working relationship. It was insulting that he now rated low enough to send a proxy, even if Lex was the president now. 

Slade intended to leave it there. He would drop out of contact, give a firm ‘no’ if they managed to track him down. Maybe warn the kid that he had a hit on him, though he likely wouldn’t need it. No one but him would be able to get the jump on Dick Grayson. Hell, he’d surprised even Slade before. If there was one thing the boy was good at, it was keeping himself alive. 

He got the call a week later, from a blocked number that left three voicemails reciting his social security number before he picked up. 

“I don’t think that was necessary, Ms. Head.”

Talia Al Ghul gave a warm laugh. It chilled him. 

“I have a contract for you, Mr. Wilson.” She spoke in the musical accent of her varied homelands and languages, the flat Midwestern vowels of Lexcorp’s CEO utterly vanished. Slade was not sure what made him someone she trusted enough to speak naturally, but he wasn’t sure he liked it. Talia’s past actions were guided by emotion and ideology, often all at once. No matter how competent or logical she was, Ra’s Al Ghul’s daughter believed in too much for Slade to ever offer his trust in turn. 

“This wouldn’t be concerning Bruce Wayne’s son, would it?” Slade asked. “I know the Feds can be slow on the uptake, so I’ll spell it out for you and Lex: Not Interested.”

Talia clicked her tongue softly, sighing as if he had bored her. “You are, though, or you would have taken it. That’s unimportant, though. As I said, I’ve a contract for you. Three million, up front.”

“Thought Daddy cut you off?” Slade sneered.

“You will never use that word in my hearing again. I have ways of obtaining what I need from poorly-regulated American companies. And you will need funds, if you take what I’m offering.”

In short, her contract would require him to disappear, more thoroughly than he usually did. It would be something that pissed Lex off, something she had no compunctions about doing right under his nose, with his money. 

“I’m listening.”

“You will take the contract on Dick Grayson’s life,” Talia said. “Follow its instructions on framing Bruce Wayne. And keep the flower alive.”

“Flower?” Slade asked. “You mean the boy?”

“Ah, so you didn’t know. I had wondered. I believe in English they’re called lilies, generally. Or is it omegas?”

Lilies. Omegas, if you wanted to be politically correct. The mysterious third gender. A very Eastern condition, owing to the practice of killing and shunning in Europe from the Middle Ages on. Slade has only ever seen them in places like Korea and Vietnam, where they wore women’s clothes, and spoke softly while watching him with sharp eyes. 

“If that’s so, how could he hide it for so many years? Why would he?”

Talia made a thoughtful noise, though it sounded just a little put on. She was clearly enjoying having more information than him. “He would have still been in his teens when estrus-suppressants came into common use. I’m sure Bruce did everything he could to keep the poor thing from losing his mind to his instincts. He is a kind man, and cannot help but protect the weak things he comes across. It’s both admirable and vexing, to be honest.”

Slade gave himself a moment to wonder at the implications of what she just told him, going over the things he knew about Dick Grayson. He was effeminate, yes, and not especially tall, but so were many, undoubtedly male men. Slade thought back to the last time he’d seen him, doing merry back flips over his shoulders, only barely thrown off by the harpoon Slade aimed in his direction. His rear looked tight and soft as he climbed the railing, and Slade wondered at just how thin that little costume was. It wasn’t that much of a stretch to think that those wide hips and fat thighs were for giving birth. 

“You got a good reason for telling me this?” Slade asked. “Is what he’s hiding part of the contract?”

“It is, in fact. In framing Mr. Wayne, you will also take steps to conceal Grayson’s sex from any prying public servants.”

So he was ‘Mr. Wayne’ now. “Why?”

“Because I am paying you three million dollars. Do we have a deal?”

Slade thought of the last time he’d seen Dick Grayson, when he put away the harpoon gun and took the fight up high with him. He landed a hard, cruel blow at the side of the boy’s head, staggering him long enough to get him against the wall, his hand tight against his throat. Through bloody teeth and a bitten-open lip, Grayson smiled at him, almost sweetly. 

“Yeah,” Slade said. “We got a deal.”

—

Slade was emptying a box of tampons into a garbage bag when Wintergreen returned from the bedroom. 

“Well?”

“The surgery was a success,” Billy said, dropping a bloodied pair of gloves in Slade’s trash bag. “He woke briefly after we finished, but a small sedative straightened him out. It won’t for long, though.”

Slade grumbled his acknowledgment. Having more time to set the scene also meant having more time until they could safely leave, and more time for Grayson to wake up and send his plans straight to Hell. He looked at his phone. Two hours left. 

“The plane ready?”

Billy sniffed. 

“Fueled up and awaiting takeoff at the airfield,” he said. “We’re not only on schedule, but early. This is ideal. What’s got you anxious, Slade?”

“Nothing,” Slade growled. “The boy, how’s he look? He’s fighting, right? Just like I said he would.”  
For a moment, all his friend did was peer into him, too kind, too knowing. Slade didn’t like being known. He stood, and pulled off his mask. 

“Send the doctor on his way,” he said. 

An hour and a half later, all parts of the crime scene were prepared, save the actual crime scene, being occupied. Dick Grayson’s eyes opened when Slade entered the room, in a way that told him the boy had been awake for a while. He looked good, for a murder victim. His chest rose and fell unevenly, still pale, but warming up instead of fading. The bandages on his throat were heavy, but even, and clean. They shifted as the boy opened his mouth to speak and then swallowed, reconsidering.

“You shouldn’t speak,” Slade said. “I imagine you’re pretty sore.”

His answer was a glare, tired, and just a little bit hurt. In the years since Slade first tried to kill him, he and Grayson had come to a wordless sort of understanding, though neither went too out of the way for one another. But Slade had, against his better judgment, always tried not to hurt Nightwing too badly. This deep, terrible maiming, even if done to spare his life, was sure to feel like a betrayal. It was, even if no one had agreed to a truce in so many words. It was a betrayal of a person they had both lost, and the reason Slade knew enough about this particular kind of injury to be sure he could afflict it without too much permanent damage.

“You’ll get your voice back in a few days. Doubt you’ll be talking much, though. I’ll be honest, life will be a hell of a lot easier for me if I keep you doped up on painkillers for the foreseeable future.”  
Grayson tried to snort a laugh, wheezing and wincing when he failed. He lifted his hands slowly, as if they were underwater, and began to clumsily sign, just one word. 

Why?

Joey had asked him the same thing, the first time they met as civilians, after he joined the Titans. It was a question thrown back at his father, who just wanted to know why these kids, why be a cape, and why now? It was unfair then, for either of them to be asking. Slade could no more justify the path his life had taken him than could his son. This answer, at least, was easy.  
  
“Someone paid me to kill you,” Slade said. “A different person paid me more to keep you alive. You don’t get to know who either of those people are.”

Grayson grit his teeth in a way that suggested he wanted to growl. What now, he signed next. 

“Now, you get to take a nap.”

Slade could see the boy’s escape attempt a mile away, and not just because the poor thing moved like he was trapped in water. He snatched his hands out of the air, one after the other, grasping both of Dick Grayson’s thin wrists while he neatly injected the sedative. He could not stop himself from looking into the boy’s wide, hurt eyes as he lost consciousness. It was a strange relief when they fluttered closed and his breathing evened out. Asleep, Nightwing was at peace. Asleep, he was only a little beautiful. 

A half hour left until takeoff. Right on schedule but still, far too much time for Slade to have to himself. Only one thing left to do. 

He reached for his cell phone, pulling up the most recent photo. Made pale by the camera flash in the darkness, Dick Grayson’s shocked face looked waxen with the line of blood on his neck. In this uncertain light, it was clear who he was and what had been done to him, but it wasn’t clear that he was alive. That seed of doubt would be what completed Slade’s first contract, and what bought Dick time. With a few clicks, he mailed the photo to Wayne Enterprises’ public contact address, which gave him an additional buffer between now and Batman finding out his son was ‘dead.’ The rest was down to Slade’s least favorite thing: luck. Maybe the kid would have enough to spare for them both.


End file.
